Volume 53 — POEMS AND BALLADS OF SCHILLER. NO. VIII.
Reading edition
FIRST PERIOD CONTINUED.
A FUNERAL FANTASIE.
1. Pale, at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood—the moon; The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres! Haggard as spectres—vision-like and dumb, Dark with the pomp of Death, and moving slow, Towards that sad lair the pale Procession come Where the Grave closes on the Night below. 2. With dim, deep sunken eye, Crutch'd on his staff, who trembles tottering by? As wrung from out the shatter'd heart, one groan Breaks the deep hush alone! Crush'd by the iron Fate, he seems to gather All life's last strength to stagger to the bier, And hearken——Do those cold lips murmur "Father?" The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear, Pierces the bones gnaw'd fleshless by despair, And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair. 3. Fresh bleed the fiery wounds Through all that agonizing heart undone— Still on the voiceless lips "my Father" sounds, And still the childless Father murmurs "Son!" Ice-cold—ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies— Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanish'd there— The sweet and golden name of "Father" dies Into thy curse,—ice-cold—ice-cold—he lies Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were! 4. Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora, When the air like Elysium is smiling above, Steep'd in rose-breathing odours, the darling of Flora Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.— So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss, The silver wave mirror'd the smile of his face; Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss, And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase. 5. Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world, As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs; As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurl'd, Swept his Hope round the Heaven on its limitless wings. Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein, That kingly exults in the storm of the brave; That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane, Strode he forth by the prince and the slave! 6. Life, like a spring-day, serene and divine, In the star of the morning went by as a trance; His murmurs he drown'd in the gold of the wine, And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance. Worlds lay conceal'd in the hopes of his youth, When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame! Fond Father exult!--In the germs of his youth What harvests are destined for Manhood and Fame! 7. Not to be was that Manhood!--The death-bell is knelling The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears— How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling! Not to be was that Manhood!--Flow on bitter tears! Go, beloved, thy path to the sun, Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest; Go—quaff the delight which thy spirit has won, And escape from our grief in the halls of the blest. 8. Again (in that thought what a healing is found!) To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!— Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound, And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead. And we cling to each other!--O Grave, he is thine! The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears— And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign, Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears. Pale at its ghastly noon, Pauses above the death-still wood—the moon! The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning, the wan stars wane, Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres. The dull clods swell into the sullen mound; Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave! The Grave locks up the treasure it has found; Higher and higher swells the sullen mound— Never gives back the Grave!
A GROUP IN TARTARUS.
Hark, as hoarse murmurs of a gathering sea— As brooks that howling through black gorges go, Groans sullen, hollow, and eternally, One wailing Woe! Sharp Anguish shrinks the shadows there; And blasphemous Despair Yells its wild curse from jaws that never close; And ghastly eyes for ever Stare on the bridge of the relentless River, Or watch the mournful wave as year on year it flows, And ask each other, with parch'd lips that writhe Into a whisper, "When the end shall be!" The end?—Lo, broken in Time's hand the scythe, And round and round revolves Eternity!
ELYSIUM.
Past the despairing wail— And the bright banquets of the Elysian Vale Melt every care away! Delight, that breathes and moves for ever, Glides through sweet fields like some sweet river! Elysian life survey! There, fresh with youth, o'er jocund meads, His youngest west-winds blithely leads The ever-blooming May. Thorough gold-woven dreams goes the dance of the Hours, In space without bounds swell the soul and its powers, And Truth, with no veil, gives her face to the day, And joy to-day and joy to-morrow, But wafts the airy soul aloft; The very name is lost to Sorrow, And Pain is Rapture tuned more exquisitely soft. Here the Pilgrim reposes the world-weary limb, And forgets in the shadow, cool-breathing and dim, The load he shall bear never more; Here the Mower, his sickle at rest, by the streams, Lull'd with harp-strings, reviews, in the calm of his dreams, The fields, when the harvest is o'er. Here, He, whose ears drank in the battle-roar, Whose banners stream'd upon the startled wind A thunder-storm,—before whose thunder tread The mountains trembled,—in soft sleep reclined, By the sweet brook that o'er its pebbly bed In silver plays, and murmurs to the shore, Hears the stern clangour of wild spears no more! Here the true Spouse the lost-beloved regains, And on the enamell'd couch of summer-plains Mingles sweet kisses with the west-wind's breath. Here, crown'd at last—Love never knows decay, Living through ages its one BRIDAL DAY, Safe from the stroke of Death!
COUNT EBERHARD, THE GRUMBLER, OF WURTEMBERG.
Ye knaves both South and North!
For many a man both bold in deed
And wise in peace, the land to lead,
Old Swabia has brought forth.
Proud boasts your Edward and your Charles, Your Ludwig, Frederick—are! Yet Eberhard's worth, ye bragging carles! Your Ludwig, Frederick, Edward, Charles— A thunder-storm in war.
And Ulrick, too, his noble son, Ha, ha! his might ye know; Old Eberhard's boast, his noble son, Not he the boy, ye rogues, to run, How stout soe'er the foe!
The Reutling lads with envy saw Our glories, day by day; The Reutling lads shall give the law— The Reutling lads the sword shall draw— O Lord—how hot were they!
Out Ulrick went and beat them not— To Eberhard back he came— A lowering look young Ulrick got— Poor lad, his eyes with tears were hot— He hung his head for shame.
"Ho—ho"—thought he—"ye rogues beware, Nor you nor I forget— For by my father's beard I swear Your blood shall wash the blot I bear, And Ulrick pay you yet!"
Soon came the hour! with steeds and men The battle-field was gay; Steel closed in steel at Duffingen— And joyous was our stripling then, And joyous the hurra!
"The battle lost" our battle-cry; The foe once more advances: As some fierce whirlwind cleaves the sky, We skirr, through blood and slaughter, by, Amidst a night of lances!
On, lion-like, grim Ulrick sweeps— Bright shines his hero-glaive— Her chase before him Fury keeps, Far-heard behind him, Anguish weeps, And round him—is the Grave!
Woe—woe! it gleams—the sabre-blow— Swift-sheering down it sped— Around, brave hearts the buckler throw— Alas! our boast in dust is low! Count Eberhard's boy is dead!
Grief checks the rushing Victor-van— Fierce eyes strange moisture know— On rides old Eberhard, stern and wan, "My son is like another man— March, children, on the Foe!"
And fiery lances whirr'd around, Revenge, at least, undying— Above the blood-red clay we bound— Hurrah! the burghers break their ground, Through vale and woodland flying!
Back to the camp, behold us throng, Flags stream, and bugles play— Woman and child with choral song, And men, with dance and wine, prolong The warrior's holyday.
And our old Count—and what doth he? Before him lies his son, Within his lone tent, lonelily, The old man sits with eyes that see Through one dim tear—his son!
So heart and soul, a loyal band, Count Eberhard's band, we are! His front the tower that guards the land, A thunderbolt his red right hand— His eye a guiding star!
Then take ye heed—Aha! take heed, Ye knaves both South and North! For many a man, both bold in deed And wise in peace, the land to lead, Old Swabia has brought forth!
TO A MORALIST.
Are the sports of our youth so displeasing? Is love but the folly you say? Benumb'd with the Winter, and freezing, You scold at the revels of May. For you once a nymph had her charms, And oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms— All its nectar in Julia's breathing. If Jove at that moment had hurl'd The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirl'd, You had felt not the shock of creation. Learn this—that Philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse—quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,— But it cannot make gods of us—No! It is well, icy Reason should thaw In the warm blood of Mirth now and then, The Gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men. The spirit is bound by the ties Of its jailer, the Flesh—if I can Not reach, as an angel, the skies, Let me feel, on the earth, as a Man.
ROUSSEAU.11
Oh, Monument of Shame to this our time, Dishonouring record to thy Mother Clime! Hail, Grave of Rousseau! Here thy sorrows cease. Freedom and Peace from earth and earthly strife! Vainly, sad seeker, didst thou search through life To find—(found now)—the Freedom and the Peace. When will the old wounds scar? In the dark age Perish'd the wise. Light came; how fares the sage? There's no abatement of the bigot's rage. Still as the wise man bled, he bleeds again. Sophists prepared for Socrates the bowl— And Christians drove the steel through Rousseau's soul— Rousseau who strove to render Christians—men.
FORTUNE AND WISDOM.
In a quarrel with her lover To Wisdom Fortune flew; "I'll all my hoards discover— Be but my friend—to you. Like a mother I presented To one each fairest gift, Who still is discontented, And murmurs at my thrift. Come, let's be friends. What say you? Give up that weary plough, My treasures shall repay you, For both I have enow!" "Nay, see thy Friend betake him To death from grief for thee— He dies if thou forsake him— Thy gifts are nought to me!"
THE INFANTICIDE.
1. Hark where the bells toll, chiming, dull and steady, The clock's slow hand hath reach'd the appointed time. Well, be it so—prepare! my soul is ready, Companions of the grave—the rest for crime! Now take, O world! my last farewell—receiving My parting kisses—in these tears they dwell! Sweet are thy poisons while we taste believing, Now we are quits—heart-poisoner, fare-thee-well!
2. Farewell, ye suns that once to joy invited, Changed for the mould beneath the funeral shade Farewell, farewell, thou rosy Time delighted, Luring to soft desire the careless maid. Pale gossamers of gold, farewell, sweet-dreaming Fancies—the children that an Eden bore! Blossoms that died while dawn itself was gleaming, Opening in happy sunlight never more.
3. Swanlike the robe which Innocence bestowing, Deck'd with the virgin favours, rosy fair, In the gay time when many a young rose glowing, Blush'd through the loose train of the amber hair. Woe, woe! as white the robe that decks me now— The shroud-like robe Hell's destined victim wears; Still shall the fillet bind this burning brow— That sable braid the Doomsman's hand prepares!
4.
Weep, ye who never fell—for whom, unerring,
The soul's white lilies keep their virgin hue,
Ye who when thoughts so danger-sweet are stirring,
Take the stern strength that Nature gives the few
Woe, for too human was this fond heart's feeling—
Woe—for the false man's arm around me stealing,
Stole the lull'd Virtue, charm'd to sleep, from me.
5. Ah, he perhaps shall, round another sighing, (Forgot the serpents stinging at my breast,) Gaily, when I in the dumb grave am lying, Pour the warm wish, or speed the wanton jest, Or play, perchance, with his new maiden's tresses, Answer the kiss her lip enamour'd brings, When the dread block the head he cradled presses, And high the blood his kiss once fever'd springs.
6.
The death-dirge of the Lucy once so dear;
From yonder steeple, dismal, dull, and hollow,
Shall knell the warning horror on thy ear.
On thy fresh leman's lips when Love is dawning,
And the lisp'd music glides from that sweet well—
Lo, in that breast a red wound shall be yawning,
And, in the midst of rapture, warn of hell!
7. Betrayer, what! thy soul relentless closing To grief—the woman-shame no art can heal— To that small life beneath my heart reposing! Man, man, the wild beast for its young can feel! Proud flew the sails—receding from the land, I watch'd them waning from the wistful eye, Round the gay maids on Seine's voluptuous strand, Breathes the false incense of his fatal sigh.
8. And there the Babe! there, on the mother's bosom, Lull'd in its sweet and golden rest it lay, Fresh in life's morning as a rosy blossom, It smiled, poor harmless one, my tears away. Deathlike yet lovely, every feature speaking In such dear calm and beauty to my sadness, And cradled still the mother's heart, in breaking, The soft'ning love and the despairing madness.
9. "Woman, where is my father?"—freezing through me, Lisp'd the mute Innocence with thunder-sound; "Woman, where is thy husband?"—called unto me, In every look, word, whisper, busying round! For thee, poor child, there is no father's kiss. He fondleth other children on his knee. How thou wilt curse our momentary bliss, When Bastard on thy name shall branded be!
10. Thy mother—oh, a hell her heart concealeth, Lone-sitting, lone in social Nature's All! Thirsting for that glad fount thy love revealeth, While still thy look the glad fount turns to gall. In every infant cry my soul is heark'ning, The haunting happiness for ever o'er, And all the bitterness of death is dark'ning The heavenly looks that smiled mine eyes before.
11. Hell, if my sight those looks a moment misses— Hell, when my sight upon those looks is turn'd— The avenging furies madden in thy kisses, That slept in his what time my lips they burn'd. Out from their graves his oaths spoke back in thunder! The perjury stalk'd like murder in the sun— For ever—God!--sense, reason, soul, sunk under— The deed was done!
12. Francis, O Francis! league on league, shall chase thee The shadows hurrying grimly on thy flight— Still with their icy arms they shall embrace thee, And mutter thunder in thy dream's delight! Down from the soft stars, in their tranquil glory, Shall look thy dead child with a ghastly stare; That shape shall haunt thee in its cerements gory, And scourge thee back from heaven—its home is there!
13. Lifeless—how lifeless!--see, oh see, before me It lies cold—stiff!--O God!--and with that blood I feel, as swoops the dizzy darkness o'er me, Mine own life mingled—ebbing in the flood— Hark, at the door they knock—more loud within me— More awful still—its sound the dread heart gave! Gladly I welcome the cold arms that win me— Fire, quench thy tortures in the icy grave!
14. Francis—a God that pardons dwells in heaven— Francis, the sinner—yes—she pardons thee— So let my wrongs unto the earth be given: Flame seize the wood!--it burns—it kindles—see! There—there his letters cast—behold are ashes— His vows—the conquering fire consumes them here: His kisses—see—see all—all are only ashes— All, all—the all that once on earth were dear!
15. Trust not the roses which your youth enjoyeth, Sisters, to man's faith, changeful as the moon! Beauty to me brought guilt—its bloom destroyeth: Lo, in the judgment court I curse the boon: Tears in the headsman's gaze—what tears?—tis spoken! Quick, bind mine eyes—all soon shall be forgot— Doomsman—the lily hast thou never broken? Pale doomsman—tremble not!
[The poem we have just concluded was greatly admired at the time of its first publication, and it so far excels in art most of the earlier efforts by the author, that it attains one of the highest secrets in true pathos. It produces interest for the criminal while creating terror for the crime. This, indeed, is a triumph in art never achieved but by the highest genius. The inferior writer, when venturing upon the grandest stage of passion, (which unquestionably exists in the delineation of great guilt as of heroic virtue,) falls into the error either of gilding the crime in order to produce sympathy for the criminal, or, in the spirit of a spurious morality, of involving both crime and criminal in a common odium. It is to discrimination between the doer and the deed, that we owe the sublimest revelations of the human heart: in this discrimination lies the key to the emotions produced by the Œdipus and Macbeth. In the brief poem before us a whole drama is comprehended. Marvellous is the completeness of the pictures it presents—its mastery over emotions the most opposite—its fidelity to nature in its exposition of the disordered and despairing mind in which tenderness becomes cruelty, and remorse for error tortures itself into scarce conscious crime.
But the art employed, though admirable of its kind, still falls short of the perfection which, in his later works, Schiller aspired to achieve, viz. the point at which Pain ceases. The tears which Tragic Pathos, when purest and most elevated, calls forth, ought not to be tears of pain. In the ideal world, as Schiller has inculcated, even sorrow should have its charm—all that harrows, all that revolts, belongs but to that inferior school in which Schiller's fiery youth formed itself for nobler grades—the school "of Storm and Pressure"—(Stürm und Dräng—as the Germans have expressively described it.) If the reader will compare Schiller's poem of the 'Infanticide,' with the passages which represent a similar crime in the Medea, (and the author of 'Wallenstein' deserves comparison even with Euripides,) he will see the distinction between the art that seeks an elevated emotion, and the art which is satisfied with creating an intense one. In Euripides, the detail—the reality—all that can degrade terror into pain—are loftily dismissed. The Titan grandeur of the Sorceress removes us from too close an approach to the crime of the unnatural Mother—the emotion of pity changes into awe—just at the pitch before the coarse sympathy of actual pain can be effected. And it is the avoidance of reality—it is the all-purifying Presence of the Ideal, which make the vast distinction in our emotions between following, with shocked and displeasing pity, the crushed, broken-hearted, mortal criminal to the scaffold, and gazing—with an awe which has pleasure of its own—upon the Mighty Murderess—soaring out of the reach of Humanity, upon her Dragon Car!]
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.
A HYMN.
Blessed through love are the Gods above—
Through love like the Gods may man be;
Heavenlier through love is the heaven above,
Through love like a heaven earth can be!
Once, as the poet sung,
In Pyrrha's time, 'tis known,
From rocks Creation sprung,
And Men leapt up from stone;
Rock and stone, in night
The souls of men were seal'd,
Heaven's diviner light
Not as yet reveal'd;
As yet the Loves around them
Had never shone—nor bound them
With their rosy rings;
As yet their bosoms knew not
Soft song—and music grew not
Out of the silver strings.
No gladsome garlands cheerily
Were love-y-woven then;
And o'er Elysium drearily
The morning rose ungreeted
From ocean's joyless breast;
Unhail'd the evening fleeted
To ocean's joyless breast—
Wild through the tangled shade,
By clouded moons they stray'd,
The iron race of Men!
Sources of mystic tears,
Yearnings for starry spheres,
No God awaken'd then!
Lo, mildly from the dark-blue water, Comes forth the Heaven's divinest Daughter, Borne by the Nymphs fair-floating o'er To the intoxicated shore! Like the light-scattering wings of morning Soars universal May, adorning As from the glory of that birth Air and the ocean, heaven and earth! Day's eye looks laughing, where the grim Midnight lay coil'd in forests dim; And gay narcissuses are sweet Wherever glide those holy feet— Now, pours the bird that haunts the eve The earliest song of love, Now in the heart—their fountain—heave The waves that murmur love. O blest Pygmalion—blest art thou— It melts, it glows, thy marble now! O Love, the God, thy world is won! Embrace thy children, Mighty One.
Blessed through love are the Gods above— Through love like the Gods may man be; Heavenlier through love is the heaven above, Through love like a heaven earth can be.
Where the nectar-bright streams, Like the dawn's happy dreams, Eternally one holiday, The life of the Gods glides away. Throned on his seat sublime, Looks He whose years know not time; At his nod, if his anger awaken, At the wave of his hair all Olympus is shaken. Yet He from the throne of his birth, Bow'd down to the sons of the earth, Through dim Arcadian glades to wander sighing, Lull'd into dreams of bliss— Lull'd by his Leda's kiss Lo, at his feet the harmless thunders lying!
The Sun's majestic coursers go Along the Light's transparent plain, Curb'd by the Day-god's golden rein; The nations perish at his bended bow; Steeds that majestic go, Death from the bended bow, Gladly he leaves above— For Melody and Love! Low bend the dwellers of the sky, When sweeps the stately Juno by; Proud in her car, the Uncontroll'd Curbs the bright birds that breast the air, As flames the sovereign crown of gold Amidst the ambrosial waves of hair— Ev'n thou, fair Queen of Heaven's high throne, Hast Love's subduing sweetness known; From all her state, the Great One bends To charm the Olympian's bright embraces, The Heart-Enthraller only lends The rapture-cestus of the Graces!
Blessed through love are the Gods above— Through love like a God may man be; Heavenlier through love is the heaven above, Through love like a heaven earth can be!
Love can sun the Realms of Night— Orcus owns the magic might— Peaceful where She sits beside, Smiles the swart King on his Bride; Hell feels the smile in sudden light— Love can sun the Realms of Night. Heavenly o'er the startled Hell, Holy, where the Accursed dwell, O Thracian, went thy silver song! Grim Minos, with unconscious tears, Melts into mercy as he hears— The serpents in Megara's hair, Kiss, as they wreathe enamour'd there; All harmless rests the madding thong;— From the torn breast the Vulture mute Flies, scared before the charmèd lute— Lull'd into sighing from their roar The dark waves woo the listening shore— Listening the Thracian's silver song!— Love was the Thracian's silver song!
Blessed through love are the Gods above— Through love like a God may man be; Heavenlier through love is the heaven above— Through love like a heaven earth can be!
Through Nature blossom-strewing, One footstep we are viewing, One flash from golden pinions!— If from Heaven's starry sea, If from the moonlit sky; If from the Sun's dominions, Look'd not Love's laughing eye; Then Sun and Moon and Stars would be Alike, without one smile for me! But, oh, wherever Nature lives Below, around, above— Her happy eye the mirror gives To thy glad beauty, Love!
Love sighs through brooklets silver-clear, Love bids their murmur woo the vale; Listen, O list! Love's soul ye hear In his own earnest nightingale. No sound from Nature ever stirs, But Love's sweet voice is heard with hers! Bold Wisdom, with her sunlit eye, Retreats when love comes whispering by— For Wisdom's weak to love! To victor stern or monarch proud, Imperial Wisdom never bow'd The knee she bows to Love! Who through the steep and starry sky, Goes onward to the gods on high, Before thee, hero-brave? Who halves for thee the land of Heaven; Who shows thy heart, Elysium, given Through the flame-rended Grave? Below, if we were blind to Love, Say, should we soar o'er Death, above? Would the weak soul, did Love forsake her, E'er gain the wing to seek the Maker? Love, only Love, can guide the creature Up to the Father-fount of Nature; What were the soul did Love forsake her? Love guides the Mortal to the Maker!
Blessed through love are the Gods above— Through love like a God may man be: Heavenlier through love is the heaven above, Through love like a heaven earth can be!
FANTASIE TO LAURA.
What, Laura, say, the vortex that can draw
Body to body in its strong control;
Beloved Laura, what the charmèd law
That to the soul attracting plucks the soul?
It is the charm that rolls the stars on high,
For ever round the sun's majestic blaze—
When, gay as children round their parent, fly
Their circling dances in delighted maze.
Still, every star that glides its gladsome course,
Thirstily drinks the luminous golden rain;
Drinks the fresh vigour from the fiery source,
As limbs imbibe life's motion from the brain;
With sunny motes, the sunny motes united
Harmonious lustre both receive and give,
Love spheres with spheres still interchange delighted,
Only through love the starry systems live.
Take love from Nature's universe of wonder,
Each jarring each, rushes the mighty All.
See, back to Chaos shock'd, Creation thunder;
Weep, starry Newton—weep the giant fall!
Take from the spiritual scheme that Power away,
And the still'd body shrinks to Death's abode.
Never—love not—would blooms revive for May,
And, love extinct, all life were dead to God.
And what the charm that at my Laura's kiss,
Pours the diviner brightness to the cheek;
Makes the heart bound more swiftly to its bliss,
And bids the rushing blood the magnet seek—
Out from their bounds swell nerve, and pulse, and sense,
The veins in tumult would their shores o'erflow;
Body to body rapt—and charmèd thence,
Soul drawn to soul with intermingled glow.
Mighty alike to sway the flow and ebb
Of the inanimate Matter, or to move
The nerves that weave the Arachnèan web
Of Sentient Life—rules all-pervading Love!
Ev'n in the Moral World, embrace and meet
Emotions—Gladness clasps the extreme of Care;
And Sorrow, at the worst, upon the sweet
Breast of young Hope, is thaw'd from its despair.
Of sister-kin to melancholy Woe,
Voluptuous Pleasure comes, and with the birth
Of her gay children, (golden Wishes,) lo,
The same great Law of Sympathy is given
To Evil as to Good, and if we swell
The dark account that life incurs with Heaven,
'Tis that our Vices are thy Wooers, Hell!
In turn those Vices are embraced by Shame
And fell Remorse, the twin Eumenides.
Danger still clings in fond embrace to Fame,
Mounts on her wing, and flies where'er she flees.
Destruction marries its dark self to Pride,
Envy to Fortune: when Desire most charms,
'Tis that her brother Death is by her side,
For him she opens those voluptuous arms.
The very Future to the Past but flies
Upon the wings of Love—as I to thee;
O, long swift Saturn, with unceasing sighs,
Hath sought his distant bride, Eternity!
When—so I heard the oracle declare—
When Saturn once shall clasp that bride sublime,
Wide-blazing worlds shall light his nuptials there—
'Tis thus Eternity shall wed with Time.
In those shall be our nuptials! ours to share
That bridenight, waken'd by no jealous sun;
Since Time, Creation, Nature, but declare
Love—in our love rejoice, Beloved One!
TO THE SPRING.
Welcome, gentle Stripling, Nature's darling, thou— With thy basket full of blossoms, A happy welcome now! Aha!--and thou returnest, Heartily we greet thee— The loving and the fair one, Merrily we meet thee! Think'st thou of my Maiden In thy heart of glee? I love her yet the Maiden— And the Maiden yet loves me! For the Maiden, many a blossom I begg'd—and not in vain; I came again, a-begging, And thou—thou giv'st again: Welcome, gentle stripling, Nature's darling thou— With thy basket full of blossoms, A happy welcome, now!